Chapter Text
When you were carrying your firstborn, the healers were alarmed by the rate at which your belly swelled.
“The birth might be difficult, my lady.” You sigh, hand running along the curve of your stomach.
“The Mother will protect us.” That became your mantra up until the time of the birth, your prayers every morning aimed towards the maternal aspect. Lyonel had made an offering when you’d first begun showing, thanking the mother for the gift and praying for health for you and the child.
The birth was long and grueling. You remembered only flashes: the muttered voices of healers and chambermaids, the searing pain, and the curses you hurled towards your husband, who was pacing the other side of the room, but heard every single one. You threatened his head, well-being, and cock, and a cold shiver ran down his spine. Your words were spoken with so much conviction that a small fraction of him was thankful that he was not in the room. He winced with your cries of pain and wished to be there to comfort you, but the young Lady Baratheon was not one to be taken lightly. One assassin had tried and received a comb, stabbed right into their eye.
Your son was born a little after midnight, and you cried with happiness as you finally held him. Lyonel was allowed in, and he hurried to you, seeing your tears. He felt a small grip of fear until a small hand appeared out of the bundle.
“My sweet.” He breathed out in awe as he laid eyes on his son for the first time.
“Lord Lyonel Baratheon, future Lord of Storm’s End. Meet your son.” You announce with a wavering voice and gently hand him over. Lyonel takes him, slowly, gently.
“What do you think of as Ormund for a name?” He asks, eyes on his son, not quite able to believe that he is here.
“Ormund, the son of Lyonel. It is perfect.” You sigh deeply, the tiredness starting to reach you in deep waves.
“He is perfect. And so are you.” He assures you and gently leans in, pressing a kiss to your forehead.
You yawn, sleep threatening to take over. The healer had assured that it would be good to sleep, if you could.
“Lyonel, you’ll hold him?” Your eyes are already closed.
“Of course, my love. You rest.” With that, your eyes close and you slip instantly into a steady, dreamless sleep.
Lyonel is left alone with his son as you rest, and can take him in with greater detail. His son’s eyes mirror his own, and so does his dark hair. But he sees your nose, perfectly miniaturized on his son’s face. The boy shifts, and Lyonel gently alters his grip.
“You’re big one, huh? Planning on outgrowing your father already?” Lyonel bounces him gently, feeling as if he could burst full of joy and pride. He remembers how he felt when he outgrew his father.
“You have a lot of growing to do. But you’ll be a hulking beast of a man soon.” He assures, hand brushing the babe’s hair.
“You’ll be able to take anyone with a sword or lance. We’ll hire the best masters of arms, and they will teach you everything. And what they don’t know, I will teach you.” He vows, glancing at your sleeping form.
A young maid peeks her head in, and you jolt awake. Lyonel throws a dark glare in her way, and she blushes deeply, voice dropping to a mutter.
“My lady, I can take the young Baratheon to the wet nurse now if-“
“No.” You interrupt, shaking your head.
“I will nurse him myself.” Your words are final, but the girl still glances at Lyonel.
“My Lady has spoken. She’ll nurse him.” He responds evenly, presence collected and stately. What you say will happen, end of discussion. The wet nurse enters the room, still, but only to aid you in nursing.
Lyonel returns the babe in your arms and watches from the foot of your bed, your hand in his, as the nursemaid assists you.
“He may not latch on the first try, but do not be discouraged, my lady.” She assures you, but your son is apparently adamant to prove her wrong, or is just hungry, as he begins suckling immediately.
“He is a hungry one.” The nursemaid laughs, giving you a warm smile.
“Of course he is, have you seen the size of him?” Lyonel boasts from his spot, and you squeeze his hand while keeping your eyes tightly on your son.
“Your son is a big baby, my lord. And healthy as a horse. He’ll grow into a strong boy and man, there is no doubt.” The nursemaid is quick to assure, and you swear you see Lyonel glow with pride.
“Lady Baratheon. Do not hesitate to ask if you need assistance. I am here.” Her words settle the nerves in your heart, as she settles into the side of the room, pulling out her knitting and starting work on it.
Lyonel leaves to announce the birth to his father, the current Lord of Storm’s End, as well as the people in the city. You can hear the cheers from the yard, and can only imagine the celebration your husband is going to throw.
*****
You couldn’t have imagined the celebration, even in your wildest dreams. On the second day, when you finally feel well enough to participate, Lyonel is boasting to everyone within earshot that your son will grow into a bouldering man and that he will beat them all in jousting, sword fighting, and archery. He’ll be the heartbreak of maidens and knights alike, and he will grow to be the Lord of Storm’s End, just like his father.
The celebration would have gone on longer, but the Ashford field tournament is fast approaching, and you have to make your way there. Lyonel had sternly refused that you and young Ormund remain home.
“He is my son, I want to show him off! Tell tales of the man he will become!” You laugh softly and wince as the carriage drives over a hole in the road. You are still not fully recovered from the birth. The healers and the elder ladies had warned you that you would be sore for a while, especially with Ormund being such a big baby.
The road to Ashford had been long, and you settled down to rest for a moment before the celebrations started. Lyonel tells you that he will take the baby with him to see the other lords. You agree, knowing he is burning to show off the future lord of Storm’s End and his heir. (There has been some light banter about him not having one, despite his age.)
When you wake, you venture on a search for them. When you finally do, you feel as if your heart has stopped.
As he, your son, sits atop a horse. He is supported by your husband’s hand, who is laughing, as his son giggles with his pudgy fist in his mouth. But he is sitting atop his father’s war horse, who was not a child’s pony, and definitely not suited for a baby.
“Lyonel! What in the gods’ name are you doing?” You didn’t bother with lowering your voice or making your tone even.
“What? You know Acorn, she’s a sensible mare.” Lyonel laughed, handing your son over as you reached for him.
“Much more so than her rider.” You huffed in indignation, inspecting your son over. He was a happy baby, taking after his father, quick to smile and laugh.
*****
In the Baratheon tent fitted for visitors, the air is heavy, and the noise is loud. Your son’s hand finds your pinky and grabs a tight hold of it.
“Have you ever seen such a warrior’s grip before?” Lyonel roars, pounding a neighboring man into the back, gesturing towards his son.
“It’s as if he were born with hands ready for a sword!” The man roars back, and they end up in a loud, alcohol fueled argument over long words and maces, which you desire not to listen to.
After a while of entertaining your son, you excuse yourself to find conversation with a few other ladies who have young children to search for kinship, leaving Lyonel with the baby. He is boasting about his size and strength with such intensity that you are not sure he is able to breathe in between.
Lyonel spots Dunk hesitantly making his way around the tent and waves him over. As soon as he has stepped to the front of the table, Lyonel holds Ormund out to him.
"Look at him, you wall of a man!” Lyonel all but thrusts his son into Dunk’s face, who takes a step back at the sudden movement.
“Were even you so big as a babe?” Lyonel’s words are proud, and he hoists his son even higher, so his eyes are in line with Dunk’s now.
“I-I don’t believe so.” Poor Dunk is stunned. He just wanted some supper, and now there’s a baby in his face.
“He’s going to be such a jouster. Feel his grip.” With one hand, Lyonel pushes Dunk to sit, and with the other, he sets his son in the arms of the hedge knight, who stiffens. He’s never held a baby before. Let alone Lord’s baby, their firstborn. Lyonel doesn’t notice this, or even think of it, and presses Dunk’s pinky into the baby’s grip. Ormund closes his fist immediately around him, and Lyonel pats Dunk on the back.
“Feel that? He has the grip of a warrior.” He’s brimming with pride, his son watching with bright eyes.
“He s-sure does, my Lord.” Dunk agrees. The baby indeed has a strong grip, and with what he knows of babies, is quite big.
“Stay there for a moment, aye? I have a matter to see to.” The “matter” is of his needing a drink, but Dunk doesn’t need to know that.
And like that, Dunk is alone with the baby. Who is looking at him with large eyes, much like his father’s. The babe’s grip remains steady on Dunk’s finger, free pudgy hand in his mouth.
“Please do not cry. Please do not cry.” Dunk is praying, sure that if he makes his son cry, Lyonel will have him executed. Which is not probably not far from the truth.
Just as Dunk feels as if he might survive this, the baby begins squirming, face scrunching.
“Oh, you’re okay.” Dunk shushes, or rather begs the baby to be quiet.
“Be still now, everything is okay.” He is getting desperate, searching for Lyonel with his gaze, but the Lord is nowhere to be seen.
Dunk’s savior appears out of nowhere.
“Ser Duncan. Why do you have my son?” Your steps come to a halt as you see Ormund in the grasp of the giant knight.
“Lord Lyonel handed him to me and went to take care of some business. I mean no harm to him, I swear-“ You cut him off.
“I am sure he is quite safe with you. My husband just … left him to you?” Your words are indignant, your brow raised high.
“Yes, my lady. He said he had some business to attend to, and-“ Your huff interrupts him yet again as you pluck the babe from his arms. He stops talking, breathing in relief as you settle your son into your lap.
“Business to attend”, you say with a roll of your eyes, “he’s been pouring pint after pint, boasting how he made a big baby. It is as if I have two children.” You sigh, hand rubbing your temple, bouncing your son gently. Ormund laughs with delight, flailing his hands, and Dunk doesn’t know how to respond.
“I-I see.” You swivel your head, glancing in the direction from which you hear his distinctive laugh coming.
“Could you hold him for just one short moment more? I’ll fetch my husband, and then I’ll take him right back.” Dunk accepts the boy with hesitation and freezes when the boy smiles at him. He responds in kind, allowing the child to grasp his finger again.
“I’m sure you’ll grow great and strong, just like your father.” He gently assures the boy, who giggles, kicking his legs. You return soon, as you promised, with your husband’s ear in your hand.
“My sweet, that is - OW!” You release him, and he rubs his ear, settling to sit in his seat with an almost childlike glare.
Lyonel is boasting again, the embarrassment of being fetched back like a child long forgotten.
“I’ve never seen a more handsome baby. And I made him!” Your husband slurs, holding his son out and up again. Dunk nods in agreement, but you kick Lyonel’s chin in retaliation.
“What do you mean you made? I am the one who pushed that very big baby out of a very small hole in my body. I can barely sit comfortably!” You snap, settling Ormund against your chest after stealing him back from your husband. Dunk blushes deep red upon your words. Lyonel throws his head back in his loud laughter. Luckily, your son is well used to this uproarious man in his life, and simply giggles, hands flailing again.
Only when your son fusses slightly, his hand finding the chest of your dress, do you decide that your evening has to come to a close. You lay your hand atop your husband’s shoulder, bringing his attention to you.
“I think it's best that Ormund and I head to sleep. He is getting hungry, and I am feeling quite tired.” You speak to your husband, and he opens his mouth to argue, but sees the steely look in your eyes and decides it would be best for his heart to join you.
“Good sers, I am afraid we must retire now.” He mutters, swaying slightly, but his voice is even. The knights and men alike around boo, and he shoves a few of them away.
“You’ll understand when you all have wives. And a baby.” He waves them off and escorts you out with a hand on your lower back.